Last Resort
by JennaLynne
Summary: With Dad off saving the world, and Mom constantly drunk, Ellie looks to conrol some aspect of her life. Any aspect at all. Title is from a song by Papa Roach. Rated T for self harm and some foul language. Oneshot.


Author's Note: So this is my first Degrassi fic. I actually haven't watched the show in forever. But I read such a fantastic story the other day that I was inspired to catch up on the show and write my own. (smiles) I've set it during early season 3 - you'll see. Okay, so it's really short and kinda crappy, but I figured I'd post it anyway, just because I might as well. Please review, let me know how I've done...

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My dreams were restless. It was a relief when the dawn began to break; patches of foggy light started to press their way through the open window. I rolled over, the red light of my alarm clock glared back at me. _4:30 am._ It was ringing, the screech resounding loudly with the great acoustics in my room. I slammed the button down. Six miles, I promised myself, and turned my attention again to the red display.

I crawled out of bed, and dragged myself lazily across the bedroom, putting my ear to my solid wooden door. All seemed silent. I lifted a pair of shorts off the floor, where I'd strewn them some time ago. I decided the shirt I'd worn to bed was more than adequate, and I didn't even want to think about the state my hair would be in after my night of tossing and turning. Foregoing socks, I slid my feet into my worn sneakers. Using the feeble wisps of light that shined through the window, I spotted my portable CD player on the ground where it had fallen from my backpack yesterday. The headphones sank comfortably into my ears, and I had about two hours of battery left.

"Should be enough." I muttered to myself as I opened my door quietly, praying that no one would hear me.

I raced down the hallway, and reached the front door, ready to go, almost home free, when I heard her behind me

"Ellie. Wh—what are you doing awake?"

I rolled my eyes. This was exactly what I had hoped to avoid. "I could ask you the same thing, Mom." She reeked of alcohol, last nights poison of choice had apparently been whiskey. I was an expert at telling the smells apart by now. And the moods that went along with her different choices. When she drank vodka, she was all smiles and giggles. Whiskey made her mean. I preferred the vodka nights. "Have you gone to bed yet?"

She snorted, swaying slightly on her feet. "That's … none of your buzness young laaady. I asked you a question."

"I'm going out for a run before school."

My mom shook her head and pointed back towards my bedroom. "No. It's too early. You'll march right back to your room. If you insist on staying awake, you can clean up that pigsty."

"Yes, because how my room looks means something. Not like this whole apartment isn't a disaster." I spat, my words dripping with sarcasm

I saw her palm reach out, flesh connecting with flesh, and I did nothing to doge it. Tears welled in my eyes, the slap had stung, but I'd certainly been hit harder.

"Don't make me repeat myself Ellie." She slurred, and turned around, retreating to the couch and her unfinished bottle of Jameson.

I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other. Reaching my bedroom, I did the only thing I could, and slammed the door with all the force I had in my body.

I wondered if she'd even hear it, or if she'd already passed out.

The sound reverberated around the room, and a tower of CD's fell over, crashing to the floor. Jewel cases cracked, CD's themselves shattered.

"Fuck. Just Fuck this." I muttered and crossed to my dresser, pulling the pink safety razor from where I'd hidden it underneath some socks. I put it on the floor and used my sneakered feet to step on it, breaking the case off.

I twisted the now free metal between my fingers for a moment before dragging it across my wrist. Over the scars and scabs from countless times before.

Metal to flesh this time. But I had no tears for this. It was pain I could control, something done on my terms, and only on my terms.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

I wondered vaguely how many shots my mother had taken the night before, if I could match the number with cuts on my arm. I doubted I had the space.

The blood runs red and hot over my skin and drips softly onto the floor. It's enough for me to see it, to remember that I'm alive. That this is my choice, and I won't have it taken from me.

So I wad up so toilet paper from the roll I keep just for this purpose, and press it to the cuts long enough to taper the flow.

Long enough to keep myself alive another day.


End file.
